Uncle Tom's Cabin

Back in January, I was browsing in a used bookstore, and came across a beautifully worn copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe's classic, Uncle Tom's Cabin. Like most of the American population, I had heard about this book all my life, knew it had to do with slavery, and that it was controversial. For a mere $3.50, this 1891 edition became mine.

It's fun to be almost forty and go back and read books I was either forced to read in high school, or ones dubbed "classics" that I never read at all. It's also fun to find diamonds in the rough such as this copy, and actually read them. I often marvel at volumes of scholarly novels lining shelves, yet the owners never read them. Why have them collecting dust, just for "show"? Reading has provided folks with mind food for thousands of years, and suddenly no one has time for it anymore. There's a difference between displaying a copy of old literature and actually being able to discuss what's in the pages. It's not hard to gauge why today's "enlightened" can barely carry on decent conversations.

I don't know where to begin in discussing Uncle 
Tom. To call it controversial is a gross understatement, as is saying that the theme is anti-slavery. The real reason that this book is banned from public schools today has to be that it is a Christian work, above all. The underlying thread throughout is to be true to Christ, to share in His sufferings, to draw close to Him because he is literally all one has. 

Yes, Stowe was moved to write this book because of slavery. She believed that people didn't take a firm stand against it because they were unaware of its horrific reality. If she could show Christians the truth of the details of daily slave life, Stowe reasoned, people's eyes would be opened, and they would be more equipped to speak out.

I love that Stowe examines all aspects of human character; she covers life with the kindest, Christ-following master, to conditions under the cruelest, subhuman-behaving master. She describes slaves from mulatto to dark, able to read to barely able to form a sentence. We also see the juxtaposition of freedom and bondage, not just in slavery, but in the hearts and minds of every character's experiences and ideas: male, female, slave, free, pastor, layperson. It is important to read works from the actual time period, written in the midst of the issues at hand. To attempt to view the past through today's lens is foolish and uneducated, yet too many people fall into the trap.

How beautifully Stowe lets the reader into Uncle Tom's world! She develops all characters wholly, giving a full picture of the various thoughts of the day, and why each one did as he or she did. I find myself detesting Simon Legree, even though Tom himself loved him as Christ would, and was blameless all the way through. Sweet little Eva, white daughter of rich plantation-owner St. Clare, is opposite Tom is so many ways, yet almost exactly like him in heart and mind. The characters are real because Stowe experienced them in real life, and takes us there. It's the only way to go; we must get the information from someone who lived during the time. Our culture is far removed from that of the 1850's, and the only way to be informed is to allow ourselves to see the realities of the time.

We often hear people today allude to someone being "an Uncle Tom." This reference is negative, used to describe a black person who has somehow gone against his "people." It is obvious to me, after reading this book, that anyone who uses this term in such a way has never read Uncle Tom's Cabin and is speaking in ignorance. It's a trend in our culture today to talk about things without having all the facts, or to read Wikipedia and attempt to pass off our findings as wisdom. I am adamantly against this, and believe we should first equip ourselves with knowledge before thinking we have the authority to discuss a matter.

Read Uncle Tom's Cabin, and see if you agree with me that the "Uncle Tom" reference so freely thrown around is inaccurate. This man, in fact, stands for all people, but for Christ most of all. He is a man of character, wisdom, and gentleness. Uncle Tom loves his family, and takes life's trials with quiet dignity. He learns to read so that he is able to share God's Word with anyone who will listen. He is found weeping over the salvation of the lost St. Clare, and finding common, childlike ground with the Christlike Eva. Uncle Tom endures being mocked for demonstrating his love of Christ. He risks being beaten in order to keep other slaves protected, and fights to the end to preserve what's right before God. Does this match the definition that our culture has given to "Uncle Tom"?

It's easy today to spew what we "would do," but the fact is, we don't know what our experiences would've been had we been alive 160 years ago. I like to think that I would've been kindhearted Mrs. Shelby, or mild-mannered St. Clare, or even Ophelia, with her strong drive to get things done well. But any of us could've been Legree, the harsh, reprehensible master we meet in the final parts of the book. Any one of us might have found ourselves brainwashed by a cruel parent as he had been, and although his actions are inexcusable, he was as ignorant as those today who reject God and go their own way. In no way do I defend Legree; his choices are wrong and despicable. However, it's important to recognize that apart from Christ, the human heart is capable of unspeakable evil. He is our supreme Model, our only hope. As we see with Uncle Tom, He also enables the faithful to bear what's impossible.

Tom was a model slave, but even greater, he is the model Christian. We can lament all he went through, but are Christ-followers called to no different? It's hard to put myself there in my comfortable home, in 2016, with all my first-world problems. All humans are image-bearers of the living God; we are called to look way beyond black, white, rich, poor, young, old, educated, believer, non-believer, or any label we care to slap on a person. That lesson from the 1800's is still true today, and forever. That we would learn from Harriet Beecher Stowe, and dare to speak truth boldly and with wisdom, against the current. 

"Oh, what an untold world there is

in one human heart!"

Harriet Beecher Stowe

Go ahead...read the first page, and get pulled in!

Waiting

Have you ever cried out to God for help, having no idea what to try next, and the answer is, "Wait"? To take it further, has He told you to wait because there is literally nothing that you can do? I'm there right now with two situations, one massive and the other pretty big, but easier to hand over. 

As humans, and especially being Americans, we want to be able to fix anything broken, and move on. After years of trying to do God's job, I believe He is ready for me to hand to Him what only He can do. All of it. See, in certain situations, there are indeed actions we can take to help. Sometimes, though, I have to take circumstances entirely off my hook and hang them on God's. This is part of what I call "theology set to real life;" in other words, Scripture becomes more than words we recite. It's gaining the authority to be able to quote verses not just because we've read them, but because we've lived them, and they become true. 

I have been through much refining, and anyone going through crisis will say that it's annoying to be met with, "Well, just trust God!" or "All things happen for good," or worse yet, "This, too, shall pass." I already get all of that. Knowing I need to trust God and actually doing it are two different things. It's the contrast between Job and his friends; they provide advice that's true and good, just painfully untimely. It's the difference between a shallow "Let go, and let God" lala-land theology, and narrow road "I'm sorry you're hurting, but you can be real with me." Solutions don't always fit neatly into a box, and don't come overnight. 

There's something else. I'm in a stage of anger, sadness, resentment, and covetousness. I've been trying to hang on to God's promises, even with a divided heart that might not fully believe them. I've beaten myself up over my lack of grace and not "trusting" God enough. I've gotten frustrated because the words to pray won't always come. 

But today I realized, maybe I need to acknowledge my anger first. Pretending, wearing a mask, and smoothing things over have brought me much sorrow already. I told God out loud that I can't always get the energy to pray; I want peace and a softened heart, but at the moment, I'm just plain mad! He already knows it...I might as well say it! In fact, I believe that the Holy Spirit nudged me to know it's okay. It could be that I need to feel my sadness and anger first so that I will be able to hand my helplessness over to Him with quiet submission. 

When a friend or loved-one shares a problem, how do you respond? If you are a Christ-follower, are you quick to spout verses or offer what that person "should do"? Please consider listening, praying, wiping his or her tears, and just being there. Experience in the trial department transforms us from pithy verse-quoters during crisis to true givers of grace and love. 

Today I painted Chippy. It's something simple that takes my mind to other places, allowing me to calm down. My girls painted him, too, because it was a part of school! It helps me to have us perform school tasks that bring delight. This sparrow also continues to remind me that God sees. 

My girls and I have loved watching the birds come to our feeder, or alight on the butterfly and hydrangea bushes in our backyard. We regularly observe robins, mourning doves, a tufted titmouse, chickadees, male and female cardinals, a blue jay, and this lovely towhee, who spent a long time just resting on the ground the other day. Jesus says to notice the birds, how they never worry (Matthew 6:26). And yet, "Are you not of more value than they?"

That's right where I am....reading verses like this, telling the Lord that my head knows it, but my heart is having a horrible time dealing with it in real life. Living out God's command to "wait" or "be patient" can be harrowing in daily life. It drains me of my energy, and the enemy makes me think the answers will never come. "Where's your faith?" someone may ask, or even think, "What kind of Christian are you?"

I'm learning that the answer to that question is: a REAL one. One who is helplessly human, finding it hard to rely on faith, not sight. I am one who was not born sanctified, who must face trials that turn our lip service into heart knowledge. I am one who is indeed "trusting God," but it looks raw and tearful, rather than mask-covered. I am begging the Holy Spirit to break through my fog with only a whisper, and unstop my ears enough to hear it. He does this daily, reminding me that even in this valley, he sees, and I don't have to perform for Him. I pray for Him to unite my heart to fear His name (Psalm 86:11), to have an undivided heart with which to fully love Him. 

Piper quoted Isaiah 30:15 in a sermon I listened to yesterday. It was about when God tells us to "wait," and what that can look like. I love this verse, and although I'm having trouble focusing on it right now, I read it and ask God to enable me to believe it, even if I don't quite feel it.

"For thus says the LORD God, the Holy One of Israel:
'In returning and rest you shall be saved; 
In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.'"

With my clenched fists and hurt, I also claim the second half of verse 18, which says,
"For the LORD is a God of justice; Blessed are those who wait for Him."

His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:23), and that's a promise I choose to believe while I wait. 

A Bird, A Book & A Dog

A few days ago, I wrote about how God sees. In light of such thoughts filling my head, it's no surprise that Chippy started coming around. He showed up earlier in the week, jumping around our empty bird feeder, as if reminding us that it's time for him and his friends to make use of it.

In thinking about God's omniscience and omnipresence, this passage came to mind the other day: "Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father's will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows." (Matthew 10:29-31)

It took a while to correctly identify this bird. Our interest has been piqued this year by The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton Burgess, and although my kids and I are no experts, we can say we do know more than we once did. We decided this morning that he is a chipping sparrow, called "Chippy" in the book. Why should I be surprised that God would send him to our window?

This guy has fought for our attention all day for several days now. His "chip-chip-chip" sounds constantly from the butterfly bush outside the kitchen. He dances around the perimeter of the feeder, pecking away at bits of seed. He even comes to the windows, perches on the sills, looks in, and calls to us. It's as if he's trying to tell us something.

I like to think it's God telling us something. He loves us! He sees us; He cares about the sparrows, and He cares about us. Didn't I end the last post that way? And along comes Chippy. Thanks, Lord, for the reminder; I hope he's here for a long stay.

A Re-Read From the Past

Does any female out there remember this book? I re-read it in two days, and it meant much more to me as an adult than when I first read it in 1988. Aside from where we live and the fact that I don't have a brother, Stephanie Hirsch's pre-teen story is a close resemblance to my own. It's amazing that I can read this book so many years and see things with adult eyes that I never considered the first time around.

The adult-me does not advocate Judy Blume books for children. Although her topics are relevant, she goes into details that can be inappropriate. I am a huge fan of this book, but I recommend it for gals who are now ages 37-45, those of us who remember being pre-teens in the days before cellphones and Internet. This book takes me back to that awkward time of hitting puberty, changing classes, having crushes, attending school dances, all bathed in total embarrassment. It's like going back and watching "The Wonder Years;" it's fun to watch now, but I realize I had no business being encouraged in such topics back then.

As in most of her books, Blume adequately captures the essence of pre-teen thinking, and in this particular volume, adds the confusion that Stephanie feels because of her parents' separation. Her unweaving of Stephanie's feelings of anger and frustration are spot on, and I love the overall idea that this young girl knows that God's design is off, even if she has trouble expressing it. 

Yes, there are some parts that leave even an adult reader shocked. I turned several pages thinking, I'm glad I'm re-reading this as a grown woman, and will remember to save it until my daughter is way older. But I admit, it's nothing I personally didn't experience as a pre-teen...I'm just attempting to keep my own girls innocent a little longer. Overall, though, I delighted in remembering the adventures of Stephanie and her friends, and enjoyed this book much more with adult eyes and experience.

Happy Birthday, Cookie!

From the time I was two until age fifteen, my grandparents had a mutt named Cookie (pronounced "Koo-ky," as latinos would say it). Because much of my childhood was spent at that house on Brookside Road, Cookie and I were pals. She was small, stout, with smelly, shabby fur...the kind of dog you think about from the past. 

Cookie's nails clicked as she walked the hardwood floor, and her bark sounded like, "Bah!" She would scratch her hind end on a wooden piece that jutted from an antique chair, and she liked to sit with me under the dining table. When Papi took a shower, Cookie would plant herself in front of the bathroom door and wait for him. She liked to sit out on the walkway in the sunshine, "cogiendo sol," as Abue called it. 

When Papi would bathe her in the tub, she looked like a black drowned rat. He would firmly command, "Sacude!" and she knew he was telling her to shake the water off. Papi would wrap her in the same towel every time, a flowered, peacock blue one. He had written "Cuqui" on it in permanent black marker. I love that.

Once, I ate her dog food. No one was on the porch, so in an act of daring, I decided to give it a try. It was hard, crunchy, brown balls. Yep, it was dog food, all right. 

Abue always said that Cookie's birthday was March 10. We marked it a few years by having parties for her. These are pleasant times that I recall when adults went to trouble over something small for my sake. I'm overcome that Abue and Papi, and their friends Dora and Chini indulged me in this. Abue would decorate the table with anything that had a picture of a dog: old greeting cards, little figurines, and the like. Papi would make a cake, and Dora and Chini would bring other treats. We would put Cookie on the table, sing "Happy Birthday" to her, and eat the desserts that she wasn't allowed to have. She probably got to eat the hard dog food balls.

Probably March 10, 1984. My Dad, Dora, Chini, and me with my two
friends and Cookie. Notice the dog cards, bundt cake, hat on Cookie,
and the look of putting-up-with-it-for-the-kids on Dad's face.

What a blessing to remember all of this. I had marvelous times at my grandparents' house, surrounded by wonderful adults, and that sweet, loving, ball of matted fur. Happy birthday to my ole Pal!

How I miss her!

God Sees

Something happened yesterday that made me furious. My daughter played in a tennis tournament away from home, and she was up against some tough competition. In the second round, she was down in the second set, 3-2. The score was 30-30, she won the next two points, and my husband and I thought, fantastic! Now they're tied, 3-3.

But our girl and her opponent began to confer at the net. We were close enough to watch, but not close enough to hear. Tournaments have strict rules about parents not being allowed to interfere, but because we knew there was trouble, we signaled an official. He spoke to both girls, and suddenly they began playing again. I was confused about why, and even more baffled that suddenly, after they had tied 3-3, things changed and the other girl won the set, 4-2.

Our daughter explained through tears that when she won, her opponent said that they were only at 40-30, because she "didn't remember" having played two points. According to her, that had only been one point. When the official was called, it was one word against another, so his only option was to have them play it out from 30-30 all over again. And this time, the other girl won...when mine really had won. We had seen it, but had to go by the rules of no parent input. It nearly killed both my husband and me. 

Later that day, as we headed home, I cried angry tears at the injustice of it all. No, it wasn't life or death, but my child had been cheated out of something she had earned fairly. I was glad at that moment that the USTA had the rules against "parent harassment," because I confess that if not for them, I just might have been up in arms. It was because of those rules that we were actually able to set an example of taking something hard with maturity, even when everything in you screams to the contrary. In the heat of the moment, we want to fly off the handle, but in hindsight, I was grateful for my daughter's sake (and mine, too!) that we had appeared calm on the outside.

As I mulled over my anger in the van, I had the quiet nudge that "God sees." This is a truth that seems trite and obvious when we just say it, but God has a way of using our unpleasant circumstances to turn our "theology" into real life. Yes, I thought, He does see. Yes, He is the ultimate judge, the only "official" who matters. It wouldn't matter if fifty refs had made the call to redo those points; the only judgment that's worth having is God's, and His alone. 

The God of the universe had seen how hard my girl had worked for that win, and He, too, was hurt by what happened. The world is broken, and His heart breaks over every wrong done to us all, no matter how tiny or massive. What's more, when we hurt over something done to our children, we have to know He understands. God the Father had to turn His own head in order to bear sending His Son to the cross. 

Isaiah says in Chapter 42, verse 3: "He will bring forth justice for truth." The little things are big to Him, and so they should be for us. All I can do is remind my girl that God sees, and He knows. All she can do is what she did, plead her case, and not worry when an earthly judge makes a bad call. The only judge who matters is the Lord.

We don't think much about Hagar, who was Sarah's servant girl in the Bible. Back when they were still Abram and Sarai, she was unable to bear children, so she forced Hagar to go to Abram, but then couldn't stand her when Hagar conceived. When Hagar was cast aside, the Lord spoke to her. The Genesis account tells us:
"Then she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees; for she said, 'Have I also here seen Him who sees me?'" (16:13).

I love this! There is nowhere we can go where He does not see, or where He is not (Psalm 139:7-10). He brings us to a place where head meets heart. Though it hurts, theology becomes more than words; it's about life lessons that we believe with an authority that wasn't there before.

Many years ago, before we had children, my husband and I were at a hockey game. During a break, some t-shirts were thrown out into the crowd for spectators to catch. We watched as a little boy of about seven practically caught one, if not for the beefy bald man who crashed into him, swiping it from under his nose. During this collision, the little fella's glasses fell onto the floor, and were crushed by the man's foot. I thought, surely that man will feel horrible. We watched, anticipating that he would give over the shirt, and apologize profusely about the glasses.

It didn't happen that way. The man, a grown adult (in body only), held up the shirt for his admiring friends, gave a whoop to feed his own ego, and brazenly swaggered away. It nearly killed me to then turn my gaze to the boy, sobbing and holding his broken glasses. I expected his Dad, who had come to his rescue, to turn and punch out the man who had treated his son so horribly. It's what I wanted to do, anyway.

But again, I was left surprised. He didn't turn on the guy at all, but rather used his wits to comfort his son. The boy's father put his arm around his son, held him, and gently steered him away, speaking soft, unintelligible yet no doubt wise words. A non-believer at the time, I was stunned. That Dad made an impression on me that night that I still remember. He set an example that clearly told his son that he loved him, and that the mean, cowardly guy didn't matter ultimately. I'm sure that boy is now a man himself, probably in his early-twenties, who knows that as broken as the world is, we can trust an ultimate Judge with our issues.

I know it hurt God to see that precious little guy get stomped on that night. It hurts Him that my girl was cheated. He hurts over the bully who threatens the weak one at school. His heart breaks for widows and orphans, over sex-trafficking, divorce, cancer victims, and miscarriages. He sees those with dementia who can't remember five minutes ago, and He knows about the unkind words spoken to all of us. 

I've asked God, Job-style, "Why???" "Lord," I've said aloud, "the Word says You are our Protector, that You see...so why?" And I'm reminded that I don't have to know why, although it's okay to ask. God knows that I think it, anyway, so why not just bring it to Him, openly and raw? Why...because Adam and Eve ate that fruit, and the world is "upside down," as my younger girl says. Things happen that were never meant to be, but those who trust Christ have eternity to look forward to. Until then, we have to trust that He sees, and not a sparrow falls without His knowing. There is comfort in knowing that His eye is on the sparrow, and I can know He watches me. 

Weekend Odds & Ends

I love the sermons and writings of Charles H. Spurgeon, an English preacher born in 1834. An excerpt from the introduction of The Essential Works of Charles Spurgeon states that he "...was baptized on May 3, 1850...About six months later he delivered his first sermon...in 1851 he became pastor of a small Baptist church...and his first literary work, a gospel tract, was printed in 1853" (published by Barbour Publishing, Inc.; used by permission). No litany of theological degrees; just a transparent heart desperate for Christ. 

My girls have heard me talk about Spurgeon so often, he feels like a personal friend. It's not unusual for them to catch me somewhere in the house pondering something from this thick book. That's just how my younger daughter, an artist like me, found me this past Sunday. We decided to try our hands at our ole friend's likeness: 

At that moment, I couldn't have come up with anything in the world I would rather be doing. I felt like I had hit the jackpot, sitting at that table on a restful afternoon, pens in hand, my gal by my side, doing something together that we both enjoy. She gave me permission to glue her rendition in my commonplace book, under my own.

"Submission and trust compose a condition of character that is peculiar to a renewed soul, but will surely be found in a man if he is indeed saved, for it is the mark of being saved from self-justification and the hatred bred by despair."
                                                                                              --C.H.S.


Are you familiar with the hymn, "Gift of Finest Wheat"? I recall it from my childhood. I love the refrain:
               "You satisfy the hungry heart
                With gift of finest wheat.
                Come give to us, O saving Lord
                The Bread of Life to eat."

Christ is the giver of life, the sustainer of breath, the "God of all Comfort," (2 Corinthians 1:3), our Redeemer who took our sin and shame, "far above all principality and power and might and dominion, and every name that is named" (Ephesians 1:21). I like to play this hymn loudly and often, letting the words and beauty of it, and the love of Him, sink into my heart and mind. Treat yourself to listening, too, here.

A Book Finished...Woo Hoo!
This is how I feel about my latest read, The Johnstown Flood, David McCullough's first book. You know him from other biographies, like John Adams and Truman. 

I had a special reason for reading this book. My great-grandfather was a six-month-old baby in Cambria County, Pennsylvania, when this epic disaster hit Johnstown on May 31, 1889. In doing much family research over the years, I am particularly interested in Cambria County and Pop's childhood home of Summerhill Township, just outside of Johnstown. Since my family is planning a trip to western Pennsylvania this spring, I decided to immerse myself in the details of the tragedy that wiped out almost the entire town, killing 2,209 people. The Johnstown flood was Clara Barton's first encounter of a major disaster as founder of the American Red Cross.

McCullough is a master at taking all sides of an event and winding them together with equal interest. I was just as intrigued by the descriptions of the members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club (which owned the dam) as I was in the harrowing details of the dam breaking. The havoc and horror that ensued were hard to stomach in some parts. Bodies of humans and animals floating by at top speed, along with debris composed of furniture, homes, clothing, and everything else imaginable...McCullough takes his readers there, to the reality of every moment.  I found it doable even for my oversensitive mind. Read this book and hug your families; rejoice in the warmth of your home, and learn the lesson of heeding warnings. Anyone who has done Titanic research will notice a few similarities. The people of Johnstown thought the world was ending. I'm grateful my Burtnett ancestors lived to tell the tales, but unfortunately, Johnstown is flood-prone; in 1936, they lost their entire farm.

On That Note...

Make sure you do this either outside with the birds singing, or inside in a warm, cozy spot, with a good book in hand! 

"Nibbles, Guinea Pig of Hendersonville"

And who doesn't love a guinea pig?

I'm amazed at the personalities that God

gave to these little creatures, rodents

who are lovable, purring squeakers!

Joyfully, until next time!